


I'm Dreaming of a...

by homosociallyyours



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Kissing, Parentlock, Pining, White Christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 17:49:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9249092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosociallyyours/pseuds/homosociallyyours
Summary: Sherlock invites John and Rosie over to watch an old Christmas movie and stay the night, hoping this is his chance to invite John back to 221B for good.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift fic for the Sherlock Secret Santa gift exchange, written for tumblr user no-more-yielding-but-a-dream. With a touch of parentlock and some slight musical theater references, I hope it was worth the wait! Happy Holidays!

The song was familiar, but where it came from was not, and it was bothering Sherlock to no end. He’d been deep in thought, considering the possible connection between the latest victim in a string of serial murders and the burst pipes in the house next door to hers when the sound of John whistling began echoing through his mind palace, tapping and humming until the fine connections he was making were shaking and crumbling. He shook his head to clear the noise, but found himself following the tune instead. 

It had the sound of a military march at first, then it changed into something a bit different. It wasn’t Sousa. No. Sherlock sifted through the notes as John whistled them until a memory came to him. He was 10, and his parents had the telly on while they were wrapping gifts. He was doing his best to deduce what was in each of the boxes after they were wrapped, and his parents tried to distract him by putting on a movie they thought he might like. John was whistling a song from it. 

“White Christmas, Irving Berlin. Classic Christmas songs written and composed by a man who never celebrated the holiday himself,” Sherlock said, startling John, who stopped whistling to smile back at him. “You’re going to see Major Sholto tonight,” he continued. “Which is why that particular song came to mind.” 

“Close. He sent a Christmas letter today. Apparently he’s started volunteering with the Royal British Legion, not much but it’s getting him out of the house. He sends regards,” John said. “Funny that you recognized that song. I’d have thought you wouldn’t have room for it.” He tapped the side of his head and smirked.

“I have a fond memory of that particular movie,” Sherlock said. “From my childhood. I haven’t watched it since, though.” 

 

“We should watch it--if you want to. I have to confess, I actually enjoy Christmas movies.” 

Sherlock considered the possibility of watching the movie with John. They’d be together, on the couch. John would like it. Even if Sherlock hated it, he could pretend not to for an hour and a half. And perhaps he could turn it into a longer evening. “Yes,” he said quickly, hoping that John’s offer wouldn’t be rescinded as quickly as it had been given. 

“I’ll bring Rosie over tonight,” John said, pulling out his phone and sending a text. “Maybe get some food ordered in?” 

Of course, the baby. Always forgetting something. “Yes. Angelo’s will deliver if I call now.” John was gathering his things, getting ready to leave. Outside the daylight was fading--Sherlock realized he must’ve been thinking much longer than he realized, and that John had likely been at the flat all day with nothing to do. There’d be no more wasting time. “You can both stay here, if you’d like. Bring some things over.” 

John turned to look at Sherlock as he was pulling on his jacket. “Don’t know if Rosie will like that, but I wouldn’t mind not making the trip back and forth so many times. Let’s give it a go then.” 

“Good. Yes,” Sherlock said, thinking of everything he’d need to do to get the flat ready for Rosie to come over. How old was she now? Would John mind him asking? Perhaps he could determine the answer. “Rosie--what should I order for her?” 

John laughed. “She’s two years old, so she’ll likely eat bits off of my plate and yours. Get her some spaghetti if you’d like, though she may just throw it when all’s said and done.” 

Two. Right. Not an infant any longer. Sherlock sighed with relief. 

“Don’t forget to call Angelo’s. I’ll be back around 8 o’clock, if that works for you,” John said, one foot out the door. 

Sherlock just had time to answer in the affirmative before John was gone, walking down the stairs and into the street. Sherlock ran to the window to watch him walk away, dialing up Angelo without looking at his mobile. He ordered John’s favorites, plus a plate of spaghetti for Rosie. 

“You having a Christmas Eve meal, Sherlock? Sounds like you’re feeding quite a few people! For you, anything, of course. Even right before Christmas!” Angelo effused at him. 

“Oh, right. It’s nearly Christmas,” Sherlock said. He knew it was close, but not that close. “It’ll just be me and John. And his child.” 

Angelo went quiet then, obviously not sure what had happened to Mary. “John and his wife are estranged,” Sherlock added to cut the tension. 

“Ah, yes,” Angelo said, still tense. “I’ll send it all over by…”

“8 o’clock would be good. Earlier is fine as well,” Sherlock said, ready to end the call. Angelo thanked him and Sherlock hung up the phone, realizing he had far more work to do in preparing for John than he’d initially realized. 

It had been a year since John and Mary’s divorce. Only a bit longer than that since Mary had moved out. She’d told John that motherhood wasn’t suiting her, and that marriage wasn’t either. Something along the lines of ‘it’s not you, it’s me,’ which bothered Sherlock because of course it wasn’t John; the man made everything better, made everything work as it should. It was an open secret that Mary had gone to work for Mycroft--that she was working as a spy for the British government. Sherlock and John never talked about it, but Mycroft sent Sherlock a text whenever Mary had successfully completed a mission--”mother says hello.” 

The texts were comforting, but Sherlock never shared them with John. He knew that John and Mary still talked, but he guessed that she told him whatever she felt he needed to hear not to worry about her. She’d done that while they were married, too. 

John had kept Rosie, obviously, and so Sherlock had started paying for a nanny. John hated agreeing to it, but Sherlock pleaded a good case for the work and John’s importance to it, and John had given in. The nanny came recommended from Anthea and was thoroughly vetted before being hired. She was very expensive and worth every penny and each favor that Sherlock now owed to Mycroft. 

Glancing at the clock--it was just after 5, now--Sherlock threw on his coat and swept out the door and down to the nearest store he could think of. An employee was standing guard outside, dressed in garish red and green and wearing a santa hat and a scowl. “We’re closing in 10 minutes, mate,” he said as Sherlock ran in. “No exceptions!” 

The store was full of people, most of them buying food or cheap last minute gifts. Sherlock approached a harried looking woman standing next to a display of canned puddings. “Fairy lights,” he said abruptly. She turned to him and stared him down, smiling aggressively yet giving off a vibe of extreme distaste. “Aisle 6, if we have any left.” She turned back toward the cans and pulled a few more forward, muttering under her breath. Sherlock took off toward aisle 6, not even bothering to tell her that the gift she’d gotten for her boyfriend wouldn’t keep him from breaking up with her before Valentine’s Day. 

He left the store 11 minutes after entering with several boxes of fairy lights and a thick pack of multi-colored papers in various shades of white, red, and green. He arrived back at Baker Street and set to work making everything look festive. The fairy lights went up first. He hung them everywhere he could: the mantle, above the doorways, even twirling a few around the skull and the paintings on the walls. When he’d gotten the last strand up, he set to work with the paper. The white, he made into snowflakes, cutting out shapes as his mummy had shown him when he was a boy. The red and green he cut into strips and began fashioning into garland, working as quickly as he could. 

As he worked, he thought about John, playing out the multitude of ways the evening could go. There was a chance that none of this would work. That John would come over and remark on the lights and decorations, maybe make a joke of it, and then sit on the opposite end of the couch with Rosie in his lap as the movie played. That he’d get up and put Rosie to bed, yawning and stretching himself, before muttering a quick good night and going off to bed. At least neither John nor Rosie was bothered by the violin, as that particular series of events would lead to Sherlock playing long into the night. 

Perhaps John would notice everything, pointing the lights out to Rosie, who’d laugh and smile. And then he’d tell Sherlock that getting all of this together was fantastic. Brilliant, amazing, any number of words that Sherlock loved to hear him say. And they’d sit close on the couch, Rosie falling asleep between them, and John touching Sherlock’s shoulder, lightly, as his arm stretched across the back of the couch. And then he’d put her to bed and go to bed himself, that same quick goodnight. 

Unless Sherlock helped him, gathered Rosie up himself and went with John to put her down. Stood next to him as she was tucked in, made sure she was properly covered but not drowning in blankets. He’d done it when she was smaller, it couldn’t be much different now. And before John could say goodnight Sherlock could take him back down the stairs, offer to make tea, offer to play the violin, and the lights would twinkle and he could ask. He could ask John to stay and keep staying, and John would say yes. 

There were variations on each scenario of course, and none of them felt right. When Sherlock looked up, Angelo’s nephew was standing in front of him with the bags of food and he could hear John and Rosie coming up the stairs. He realized that he was surrounded with an ungodly amount of paper garland, and that the pack of paper was now completely empty. “Well. That just...happened,” he said, gesturing to the paper all around him. 

Angelo’s nephew nodded, confused, and set the food down on the coffee table. “Your friend let me in,” he explained. “You already paid, yes?” 

Sherlock nodded, and the nephew shrugged, turning around to leave. He passed John on the stairs, and Sherlock jumped up to try to offer some assistance with the baby’s things, forgetting for a moment that he was entangled in a mess of paper garland.

“Sherlock, we’re here!” John said, voice quieter than usual because Rosie was asleep on his back. “Oh--you--wow, this is brilliant,” he said, taking in the lights and decorations that Sherlock had already hung. 

“I realized it was Christmas Eve and I thought since the two of you would be staying the night I should do...something,” Sherlock waved his hands at the decorations, and John looked at him and immediately burst out laughing. 

“Christ, Sherlock, you’re swimming in paper garland!” he set his bags down and began gently pulling at the garland until he found the beginning of the chain that was buried in the heap. “Let me,” he said, untangling the links as Sherlock spun himself free. “I don’t know how you managed to wrap it around yourself so many times.” 

Sherlock shrugged. “I was thinking about other things.” 

“The case? Right, of course, you probably need to finish with it, after dinner we’ll just--” 

“No!” Sherlock said, a bit more loudly than intended. He saw Rosie stir and continued at a lower volume. “No, it wasn’t the case at all, I was merely thinking about our evening.” John raised his eyebrows--surprised, concerned, happy--and smiled back at him. 

“Our evening, right, yes, that’s good,” John said, nodding agreeably. “Let’s get these hung and get on with it then, shall we?” 

John laid Rosie on the couch--apparently it was close enough to her bedtime that she’d fallen asleep on the way over and he was loath to wake her--and helped Sherlock hang the garlands around 221B. They made quick work of it, and opened up their food to eat while watching the film. 

“Should we wake Rosie?” Sherlock asked, eyeing the toddler curiously. “Give her dinner?” 

“I fed her something before we left the house, sorry, should have texted you,” John said, stroking her head. “Could probably put her to bed, though she might wake up a bit confused in a few hours.” 

“She can stay,” Sherlock said. He knew that meant this would be another night of missing his chance with John, if there really was one there. John smiled back at him, the tight smile he reserved for moments when he had something to say but was keeping it to himself, and Sherlock turned away, busied with putting the DVD in the player. 

As the film played, Sherlock realized he remembered very little of it from his childhood viewing. The plot was rather thin, and he found himself rolling his eyes and sighing in parts. But once the songs came on, he was pulled back in, the tones of the main actor’s voice smooth and lovely. He listened to John humming along and risked a glance at him. His profile was illuminated with the light from the television, and he had one hand resting next to Rosie, who was under a blanket to his right, and the other arm resting on the back of the couch, his hand almost--but not quite--touching Sherlock’s shoulders. “You can sing if you’d like,” he said, startling both John and himself. “I wouldn’t mind.” 

“My voice isn’t nearly as good as Bing’s,” he said, turning toward Sherlock. “Is the movie everything you remembered?” 

“I’m enjoying myself.” 

John nodded and turned back to watch two of the characters duet about falling asleep counting their blessings, and Sherlock sunk down into the couch, wishing he had anything better to say. 

Sherlock was awakened by the sound of John’s voice and the gentle pressure of his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “You fell asleep, the movie’s over,” John said quietly. “I’ve already put Rosie to bed, it’s your turn now.” 

“I was counting my blessings. Instead of sheep,” Sherlock sang, hazy and half-dreaming. John sat down next to him on the couch, his hand on Sherlock’s knee. 

“How many were there?” he asked, yawning.

“You. Rosie,” Sherlock yawned back. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” 

“Come on, into bed with you,” John said, rising and pulling Sherlock up with him.

Something felt right about the moment, and Sherlock, soft from resting, let himself be pulled. “You should stay with me,” he said. “For Christmas.” 

John was walking with him toward his bedroom, but Sherlock couldn’t look at him. “It’s Christmas now,” John said. “I’m already here.” He was the one who turned the knob and opened Sherlock’s door, leading him to the bed. 

Sherlock sat down and let himself look at John, finally. They’d known each other so long and gone through so much. It had to be the right time. He inhaled, trying to breathe himself awake enough to be convincing. “I don’t say this lightly, John. I wanted you here, tonight. Always. Again. With me.” He splayed his hand on the bed and looked down at it, hoping John would join him. He exhaled, waiting for a response.

When he looked back up, John was still hesitating, staring off into the middle distance and wetting his lips as if he was going to speak, but remaining silent. 

“I decorated for you. And for Rosie. I know it won’t be easy. I’m not a natural parent. But I’ll do my best for the both of you. If you’ll have me.” His throat felt dry and heavy, and he half hoped he was dreaming this, that he’d wake up and not have said any of these awkward things that showed too much of his inner striving. But it was true, all of it. That he wanted John with him as a partner in life and work and, if he could, love. And that he’d take Rosie, too, as difficult and complicated as that might be. 

“If you’re doing this just to get me back here--in the flat--I swear, Sherlock,” John said, holding back emotion. “I’ll know it. I can’t leave Rosie behind, not when she doesn’t have--” 

“I’m not Mary,” Sherlock said. “I’m not going to be able to mother a child. But I won’t leave because of it.” His heart was beating fast and sleep had fallen away from him completely now. He felt awake and alive. 

“I haven’t done this before,” John said, still looking out the window. 

“Neither have I,” Sherlock said. John had stopped breathing altogether. “But this seems the best place to start.” 

John turned his head slowly to look at Sherlock. “On Christmas?” 

“Tonight. Finally,” Sherlock said, stretching out his hand toward John. 

“Yes, yeah, ok,” John said, nodding and taking Sherlock’s hand. “This is the best--strangest--maddest--most wonderful present you could ever…” he gripped Sherlock tightly and let himself be pulled forward until he was falling into the bed, turning on his side and tugging Sherlock down with him. 

They stared at each other, still holding hands, until Sherlock broke the silence. “I hung mistletoe,” he said, glancing toward the ceiling. “In the hopes that you’d be here.” 

John laughed, and leaned in toward Sherlock. “Like Santa Claus?” he said, honing in on Sherlock’s mouth. 

“Well, we are ‘nestled, all snug in our beds,’ after all,” Sherlock said as John moved toward him. It felt surreal and impossible, but it was happening. Their lips met and Sherlock closed his eyes, his hand still tight around John’s. The kiss was soft and warm and gentler than he thought it would be, but it grew slowly into something stronger, John’s tongue darting out and Sherlock letting him in, pulling him closer until they were pressed together, legs still dangling sideways off the bed but intertwined now. When they broke apart John laughed, and Sherlock opened his eyes, suddenly nervous once more. He realized he couldn’t bear to look at John, afraid of what he might see, and so he shut them tight again. “Was that alright?” 

John laughed again, the same giggle he usually had after a particularly good case had made him giddy. “Better than,” he said. “The best.”

“So you’ll stay, then?” Sherlock asked, opening his eyes. 

“For Christmas and as long as you’ll have me,” John said.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was lightly beta-ed by the lovely @bandersnatchmycummerbund (THANK YOU, FRIEND!!), but if you notice errors of any kind feel free to comment or message me on tumblr.


End file.
